


The Weight of Adoration

by FiaMac



Series: Psycho Heroes [3]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Arthur-centric, Backstory, College, M/M, Military Backstory, Pining Arthur, Pre-Inception, Pre-Relationship, Teen Arthur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-16
Updated: 2017-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-21 00:28:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4807964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FiaMac/pseuds/FiaMac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Teenage romances are never kind.</p><p> </p><p>  <em>"Trevor Scofield is the kind of bad-boy mothers warn their daughters about. It’s a shame they never think to warn their sons, too."</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Act of Futility

_"...one painfully awkward rejection per lifetime is more than enough, thank you very much."_

_~ You So Impolitely Walked Into My Dreams_

 

Trevor Scofield is the kind of bad-boy mothers warn their daughters about. It’s a shame they never think to warn their sons, too, because during Arthur’s junior year of high school he learns three important things about himself.

First, he is definitely gay. Or rather, definitely not straight since he still has fond thoughts of that time he and Amy Pruitt felt each other up two years ago. But lately his eyes linger on a couple of soccer players in trig class, and not because he’s developed a sudden interest in team sports.

Realizing and accepting are two different matters, of course. He doesn’t tell his parents, or anyone really. There’s no one in his life that _needs_ to know. And that, in a way, gives him a little elbow room to come to terms with this new understanding of himself. Existential crises don’t require audiences, after all.

The second thing Arthur learns about himself—he’s a thrill-seeker. That one is less obvious considering his perfect attendance record and honor roll status. But just because he wants a little excitement in his life doesn’t mean he wants a reputation for trouble. He likes flying under the radar, thank you. He just also likes that punch of adrenaline when he drives too fast on the backroads, and that smug satisfaction he feels when he sneaks out his bedroom window at night.

Arthur’s newfound life choices translate into the people he’s attracted to. Which makes sense considering Amy Pruitt did get suspended back in seventh grade for breaking into the nurse’s office. The rebels, the edgy trendsetters, the troublemakers ... they’re all magnets to Arthur’s surging hormones and teenaged fantasies. But none so much as Trevor Scofield.

Trevor is the reigning king of the school’s pierced and tattooed crowd. He’s the go-to guy for anyone looking for fake IDs, a dime bag, or someone’s tires slashed. He is definite bad news and makes no effort to pretend otherwise.

Arthur has it bad for Trevor. Very bad. He’s the first boy Arthur has ever felt this way about—movie stars and Calvin Klein models don’t count. Not even Travis Fimmel has ever made him feel like this … elated and nervous and achy all at once. To say nothing of the masturbation fodder Trevor provides.

Arthur has been aware of Trevor since he first transferred in during freshman year, an exotic creature with metal-studded belts and spiked hair, but their worlds never overlapped for the very obvious reason that Trevor is cool and Arthur has the social standing of office furniture—present but hardly memorable. But this year, Trevor is in Arthur’s economics class. Trevor sits next to him, on the days he actually comes to school. This year, Trevor _talks_ to him.

It turns out, Trevor has brilliant blue eyes behind a thick layer of guyliner. Trevor goes to metal concerts and has been to Tijuana twice. Arthur is a little bit in love with Trevor, and in a whole bunch of lust.

Arthur is excited the first time Trevor invites him to hang out after school with him and his friends. He’s smitten when Trevor laughs at his jokes. He’s downright infatuated when Trevor starts teasing him about his floppy hair, tugging on that one curl in front of his face maybe once too often. Nothing is ever said or done outright, but Arthur thinks Trevor just might feel the same way. Or maybe he just wants Arthur to write his Econ paper for him. Possibly both. Arthur can definitely live with both.

Things are looking up when Trevor coerces Arthur into ditching last period with him. Just the two of them. They tool around town a bit in Trevor’s Tercel before parking on the top level of a mostly empty parking garage. They get baked on Trevor’s last stash of weed, and Trevor lets Arthur jerk him off in the backseat. They don’t kiss, but Arthur comes in his pants anyway. Afterwards, they sit on the hood of the car and share a cigarette.

“You going to Andy’s party tomorrow night?”

Arthur blinks, entranced by the way Trevor holds his mouth while blowing out smoke. “I—maybe. Are you?”

Trevor shrugs. “Yeah, I figured I would. Not much better to do in this shit town, right?” He flicks the cigarette butt aside and jingles his car keys. “See ya there, huh?”

With that, he drives off, stereo blasting. Arthur walks home, too stoned and dazed from his second-ever sexual encounter to care about the come stains on his jeans.

The next night, Arthur is nervous but hopeful. He knows it’s not exactly a date, but it kind of feels like one. Not that he’s ever been on a real date. But he wears his favorite red shirt and gels his hair. Just in case it turns out to be a date.

The party is in full-swing by the time he gets there; he had to wait until his parents fell asleep before his could sneak out, and they both like to eat ice cream with the eleven o’clock news. Andy Bergman’s house is more like a baby-mansion—both his parents are lawyers—and the place is packed with people Arthur has never seen before. He’s there for almost an hour before he finds Trevor in the back yard, having an awkward looking threesome on a lawn chair.

He doesn’t know how long he stands there with a small crowd of leering spectators, watching Trevor finger Arthur’s chemistry lab partner while another girl bounces on his lap. It’s long enough for Trevor to get his rocks off, giving Bouncy Blonde a conciliatory pat on the rump as he climbs off the lawn chair and drains a bottle of pineapple-flavored vodka. He looks up eventually and sees Arthur standing there, waiting for a moment that’s never going to happen.

“Hey, man,” Trevor grins, doing up his jeans. “Hey! You wanna go? These chicks are still wet ‘n’ willing, ain’t ya, babes?”

Bouncy Blonde gives him the finger, but Trevor doesn’t notice because he’s focusing bleary eyes on Arthur. Arthur doesn’t know what expression Trevor sees on his face—he’s feeling rather numb at the moment—but whatever it is brings on a derisive sneer.

“Aw, shit man, you look like you’re gonna cry. You didn’t think we’re, like, dating or some shit?” Arthur flinches, causing Trevor to giggle uncontrollably. “Did you? Did you think you were my little boyfriend?”

Arthur clenches his jaw, feeling dozens of eyes on him, hearing the murmurs as more people join them on the patio. High schoolers are like sharks, that way. “N-no. I don’t—”

“Fuck, that’s adorable, man.” Trevor gets louder with each word, all but yelling to be heard throughout the yard. “Like I’d ever date some skinny li’l virgin queer like you.” Some people laugh. The girls on the lawn chair watch with pity in their eyes.

“I’m not—” Arthur feels his breath hitch, grinds his molars together until it hurts. He knows it’s pointless to say anything, to protest. He’s alone amid a circle of predators, and they’re scenting blood. He feels cold all over, hypersensitive to the night air on his face. Surrounding him, the faces of the crowd are in sharp focus, seared into his vision. He can feel a tremor work through his body, starting in his feet and coursing up, and he clenches his hands into tight fists at his sides.

Trevor saunters closer, basking in the spotlight. “C’mon, dude, be serious. Look at _me_ , and look at _you_.” An imperious wave encompasses Arthur from his converse shoes to his button-down shirt. It really is his favorite shirt. “If I wanted a taste of vanilla cherry, it wouldn’t be from some dimple-faced homo that comes in his pants the first time he touches a di—”

Trevor doesn’t get to finish that thought because he’s lying on the hard concrete, bleeding from the nose. Arthur’s fist burns from slamming it into Trevor’s face. It feels so good that he decides to do it again. And again. More. By the time three other boys manage to pull Arthur away, Trevor has a swollen eye, three loose teeth, a dislocated wrist, and a jaw broken in two places.

And that’s the third thing Arthur learns about himself that year—he likes to solve his problems violently. Preferably with extreme prejudice. Because it’s great to be liked, nice to have friends. But what’s really important is this—he is not someone you fuck with.


	2. All the Missing Pieces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story was always meant to have three chapters, but I wasn't sure if I'd ever write the latter two. Chapter 2 wanted to come out while I was posting "Counting Bodies", but ultimately it made more sense to put it out now, after finishing "Fall". Someday chapter 3 might make it through, as well. We'll see.

 

It takes Arthur two years to decide that not all boys are self-serving assholes like Trevor Scofield. But just to be on the safe side, he turns his affections towards a different kind of man. Steering clear of party boys, tattoos, and teenaged rebellions, Arthur hones in on the shy, needy guys that will happily profess their devotion in exchange for some skin-on-skin action.

College vastly improves his dating prospects. Suddenly he has access to hundreds of bashful wallflowers desperate to offload their virginities to the first kind face aimed their ways.

Arthur plucks a few for himself within the first couple of months, losing the last remnants of his own virginity to a Polish exchange student with beautiful blue-gray eyes.

It isn’t until spring term that he contemplates an actual relationship, when he picks Darren Van Holt out of the crowd of his physics lecture. On the first pass, Darren seems like perfect boyfriend material. He’s witty, fawns over Arthur, and is just insecure enough about his slim build to ensure fidelity.

It’s an unfortunate fact that Arthur doesn’t anticipate said insecurity to factor into Darren’s self-image as a gay man.

Arthur has never particularly cared what other people think about his dick and how he uses it, so it’s a small test of patience to accept Darren’s semi-closeted behavior. But that’s a minor hiccup in an otherwise comfortable relationship—easily avoided by spending most nights in rather than out. And, anyway, Arthur would prefer get off in their respective dorm rooms than waste time at parties drinking cheap booze. So things are good.

But, then, all goods things do end.

Later, in a pot-induced episode of maudlin regret, Arthur will wish they hadn’t gone out that night. He’ll curse himself for losing his temper—apparently the court-mandated classes weren’t as effective as his mother had hoped—and, specifically, losing _control_ of his temper. Later, in this fit of resentment and melodramatic loneliness, Arthur will regret he didn’t work harder to be what Darren wanted.

In the current moment, however, Arthur just wishes he had hit the asshole harder.

“I just don’t _get_ you sometimes, you know?” Darren throws the door to his dorm room open with more attitude than the conversation warrants—at least in Arthur’s opinion, anyway, and he makes a point to shut it quietly. With control.

He turns to find Darren standing at the far side of the room, arms crossed, and sighs. He’s tired, sort of drunk, and he’s probably not going to get blown tonight after all. “Look, I said I was sorry.” But he sees no hint of acceptance on Darren’s narrow face.

“What were you even thinking? You think I _wanted_ you to jump in like that?” The scorn in his boyfriend’s eyes is something new, giving Arthur the disjointed sensation of déjà vu. “Just because I’m gay, I’m not, like, a _girl_ or anything.”

“Yeah, that’s… actually pretty sexist.” And has Darren always been this dramatic? Did he just not notice until now?

Darren’s eyes roll so far up that Arthur only sees white for a second. “Jesus, you know what I mean. I don’t need you to protect me like you’re some big macho-man. You’re two inches shorter than me, for god’s sake.”

Arthur takes a deep breath. “I know you don’t need it. But I’m your boyfriend. Don’t you want me to care about shit like that?”

Darren huffs a sarcastic laugh. “If that’s your version of caring, then no.”

Arthur grabs at the unspooling threads of his patience. “Well, that’s just fantastic. I can’t believe you’re pissed at me because I defended you against—”

“No, Arthur, I’m _upset_ because you’re…” Darren cuts himself off, clamping his lower lip between his teeth as if to cage his words up like wild dogs. It’s the first time Arthur has ever witnessed the other boy censure himself, and it makes him deeply suspicious about what’s not being said.

“I’m what.” He doesn’t mean for his voice to get so hard. Doesn’t even know where that razor-edged tone comes from, or where that part of him has been hiding all these years. But he kind of likes it—even if it makes his boyfriend wince.

Silence falls between them like lead. Arthur is determined to let it lay there as long as necessary, but it doesn’t take even a minute before Darren starts to fidget, teeth now gnawing his lip. “Arthur…”

“No. Tell me,” he presses, slipping his hands into his pockets and starring Darren down. “What am I?”

And then the words all but explode into the air. “You’re just _too much_ , okay?” Darren flings his arms out, as if to demonstrate, then immediately reels them back into a rigid self-hold.

Arthur just barely suppresses the urge to roll his eyes himself. “What is that even supposed to mean?” he scoffs and watches Darren’s chin thrust up.

“Fine,” he snaps. “You want to hear this? Fine. You’re too intense, Arthur. And, like, you’re really demanding. And you have all these expectations about life and what other people are supposed to do, and it’s all just too much, okay? And now I’m finding out that you’ve got this problem with violence on top of everything else—”

Arthur has grown stiffer with each word, until that last revelation leaves him gawking, incredulous. “Excuse me? I’m _violent_?”

But he frowns because he remembers the sensation of flesh splitting under his knuckles. Knows it, liked it, will probably experience it again.

But teaching some dickhead a lesson in manners doesn’t mean he’s a mindless psycho that just likes to hurt people. He’s not that kind of person.

Right?

“Yeah, Arthur. Jesus. You didn’t see yourself. You just… Fuck, you totaled whaled on that guy! Like, seriously.”

“He was an asshole. He deserved it.”

“You made him _bleed_.”

“Just a broken nose. It’s not like I shanked the guy or anything.” And then Arthur finally notices the uneasy slide of Darren’s eyes, measures the full length of a room between them and the tight way Darren holds himself. And it’s too ridiculous to be true. “Wait. You don’t think I’d ever hurt _you_ , do you?”

Darren doesn’t answer, doesn’t look him in the eye, which is answer enough.

“I see.” And he does.

But he really wishes he didn’t.

The sting in his heart actually catches him by surprise. Because somewhere along the lines, he must have become attached. Developed feelings. Not love, no, but… something that could have turned soft and nice. Something he realizes he wants, had been looking forward to. Something that has just been ripped out of his reach while he was told, yet again, that he isn’t good enough to have it.

But fuck if he’ll let Darren see just how much the rejection hurts. Fuck that shit to hell.

On instinct, Arthur reaches within himself for some defense against all these things he doesn’t want to feel. Searches blindly and finds a calm corner of his mind where words don’t mean anything and Darren is just another guy. The world gets quieter. Time moves slower. And the sting levels out, becomes less of a bite and more of an irritation.

Which is fine. He’s fine. This—what’s happening—it doesn’t matter.

“I just really need to focus on making healthy choices right now—”

“Fuck you.” He says it quietly, but the words spit out of him like bullets.

Darren’s mouth shuts with a click, an indignant expression crowding out the hesitancy in his yes. “Look, this isn’t going to work between us.”

Arthur’s laugh is short, dry, and not at all humorous. “Yeah, no shit.”

It's easy to walk away after that. He doesn’t need this shit, doesn't need to clutter his life up with assholes that are just going to jerk him around. He gets by on his own just fine. 

 

* * *

 

Three years later, Arthur meets a man named Dominic Cobb.

 


	3. How I Picture You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Occurs sometime between _Dancing Through the Slaughterhouse_ and the later events in _Gasoline Rain_ , when Eames and Arthur are both in the military dreamshare program, shortly after Eames invents forging.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Psycho Heroes is turning 2! To celebrate another PH anniversary, here's a missing scene that I've been slowly writing for the last year. And special thanks to Marourin for helping me figure out how an awkward, pining Arthur would try to flirt with an oblivious Eames. Enjoy!

Dominic Cobb’s brows pinch together in concentration as he studies the cards in front of him. The expression is spot-on, not a line or a movement out of place; nevertheless, something about Cobb is… off. Just the slightest hint of wrongness, but it’s enough to set off internal alarms.

Arthur peers over his own cards, comparing against the image in his mind, until he figures it out. “Your eyes should be lighter. A bit of green.”

Those eyes flick to him for a thoughtful second before Cobb’s head dips in tense acknowledgement. A few blinks, and the eye color has shifted the tiniest fraction, most people would never even notice the difference. “Right. Ta, love.”

The endearment, couched in that lilting accent, slides down Arthur’s back like a caress. He combats the sensation with his best scowl. “Corporal,” he censures.

“Yes, yes,” Eames says, shifting back into flat American tones. “How’s this?”

Because that’s the point of this whole exercise—testing how well Eames can hold on to this new party trick of his while multitasking. How, exactly, that turned into teaching Arthur how to play poker, he’s not really sure. And normally he’d be loving the extra time spent in Eames’s company. It’s just a shame that the view isn’t as good as it usually is.

He forces himself to nod approvingly when, really, he wants to pout, just a little. “Good. Better.”

They go through the motions of exchanging cards and adding to their bets. Neither of them have their full attention on the game. Eames is obviously preoccupied with holding the disguise—although Arthur has to admit he’s done a commendable job of keeping his focus—and Arthur… Arthur is, as always, preoccupied with Eames.

Preoccupied and tempted.

He’s been toying with the idea of chatting Eames up, to try and determine if this visceral pull only goes one way. Granted, they are frequently too busy sniping at each other to entertain the possibility of mutual attraction, but… sometimes he thinks there’s a look, an intention to say more than actually gets said. Kinetic energy that suggests maybe hostility is only the thin skin of chemistry, which could rupture into something glorious if only one of them pushed the edge a little more.

The uncertainty is driving him nuts. Those _maybe, possibly_ thoughts that dominate his sleepless nights. And, though Arthur doesn’t like to operate with unverified intel, Eames’s casual disregard has made it clear that any advancement from the status quo will be entirely up to Arthur.

It shouldn’t have been a problem. Arthur isn’t and never has been shy about pursuing his interests. Opportunity, however, has been his greatest obstacle. It’s only at times like this, when they’re running loose in the dream world, that the two of them are actually alone. Granted, none of it is real, but it’s as close as they’re going to get. And some things are worth trying for. Eames, he thinks, just might be worth trying for.

Seize the day, and all that.

He clears his throat, more as a prologue than from actual need. “I do want to tell you, though. The disguise—”

“I’m thinking of calling it a forge,” Eames interjects without looking up from his cards.

“Right. Yeah, that makes sense, I guess,” Arthur tries not to frown. “Anyway. It’s good. I mean, you’re good at it.”

Eames gives him a curious look, so Arthur quickly shifts gears, trying to deflect the blooming awkwardness with humor.

“It’s a nice suit, even,” he teases, aiming for charming, although he suspects he lands somewhere closer to constipated. Still, nothing ventured, nothing gained. “Prada, right? I’m impressed.”

The sharp smile Eames gives him is no less biting coming from Cobb’s boyish face. “Yes, your validation is much appreciated. Thank you, Arthur.”

Right. Sense of humor clearly out of practice. Maybe he needs to rethink his approach, plan something more deliberate since spontaneity isn’t working in his favor.

They fall back into silent playing, only this time with tension running much closer to the surface than before. Arthur can feel his back getting stiffer with every passing second and mentally berates himself for thinking he could charm _Eames_ of all people. He sees the way Eames is with the rest of the personnel on base, even the colonel. Friendly, witty and disarming. Arthur isn’t anywhere in the same league.

Best to stick to what he knows. Directness. Unfiltered opinions. He loses the next hand while trying to figure out the best way to state his attraction for someone that, with sixty percent certainty, probably thinks he’s a dick.

No pressure.

Eames deals out another game before looking across the table. “I gather you still haven’t told anyone what I can do.”

Arthur blinks, his mind currently on many things except work, but he has no trouble switching modes. And he’s been anticipating this conversation. “No, and neither will you,” he orders.

Eames gives him a narrowed-eye look, and… huh. He’s never realized until now how often Cobb squints like that. “I don’t know how much time you spent in the Army, but I’m pretty sure I outrank you.”

Was that flirtatious? It seemed flirtatious. But, then, Arthur has a bit of _thing_ for power games, and he can’t hold back a tiny smirk. “And I’m pretty sure that doesn’t matter.”

“Hmm. I’m sure you’re right.” Eames doesn’t smile back, but maybe there’s an answering glint of amusement in his eyes.

This time the silence between them isn’t so harsh or stilted. Arthur doesn’t even mind when he loses again.

“You know, you’re really quite awful at this.”

Arthur shrugs and contemplates the value of a three and two fives. “I’m not a gambler.”

“Neither am I,” Eames says cheerfully. “Makes it more fun, doesn’t it?”

“Losing at poker is not fun.”

“Is from my end,” Eames winks.

Arthur shudders in reflex. “God, please, don’t ever do that with his face again. I don’t need that in my head.”

Cobb’s face splits with Eames’s exuberant grin. “What’s this, then? A sense of humor? I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“Who’s joking? That was seriously gross.”

And Eames laughs with such startled, obvious delight that Arthur can’t help but smile at him.

That little bubble of joy bursts apart not two seconds later, however, when Eames suddenly drops the disguise—the forge. From one blink to the next, Dominic Cobb vanishes and leaves Eames in his place, staring and slack-jawed. “Fuck me,” he breathes, eyes wide. “You have dimples.”

The abrupt return of Eames’s pretty boy face and muscled physique sends Arthur’s thoughts into a tailspin. And the continued staring redirects that drop into a very uncomfortable nose dive.

He knows how he must look to someone like Eames—scrawny build and jailbait features, a veritable sore thumb among all these special forces and career military types. And the dimples… hell. Sure, they got him plenty of hookups in college, but they don’t exactly scream _armed and dangerous_ to anyone, least of all trained soldiers. He quickly learned to avoid smiling, which has become easier with time given the depressing lack of things to smile _about_.

Like Corporal Bryce Emerson, here, and his stupid, judging stare.

Arthur frowns in the way that he knows for a fact eradicates all hint of any dimples. “Shut up and deal.”

“I was only noticing—”

“Yes, well. Your observation had been duly noted,” he says with the sarcasm that flows more smoothly from his tongue than charm, these days. “Thank you, Corporal.”

Maybe he’s a petty little shit, but it’s gratifying to see some of his own self-consciousness crawl across that face. Eames might not know who he's messing with, but he'll learn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to make this all angsty and such, but I think I broke my angst button for the time being. Oh, well.

**Author's Note:**

> Story and chapter titles from the song "By and Down" by A Perfect Circle
> 
> Look for the [Psycho Heroes Soundtrack](https://open.spotify.com/user/qvxh3o4rvca6soodo82lagqt8/playlist/2TOcGz53b6ONaVS8Q3gIGZ) on Spotify!


End file.
